Visual Representation of Book / Part |

Method: Evolution: Book / Part |

Evolution
/εvә'lu∫әn, ivә-/, n. 1. any process of formation or growth; development. 2. Something evolved; a product. 3. Biol. the continuous genetic adaptation of organisms or species to the environment by the integrating agencies of selection, hybridisation, inbreeding, and mutation. 4. a motion incomplete in itself, but combining with coordinated motions to produce a single action, as in a machine. 5. an evolving or giving off of gas, heat, etc. – evolutional, adj. – evolutionally, adv.

As the ice fell Method looked up towards the clouds in hope. He hoped that everything would turn out right – like a fairytale.
“Fairytales never happen in real life - do they?” Method asks as you pass by.
You don’t stop to answer. You have your own questions that need answering and they can only be answered by continuing your journey. The fewer questions you have – the shorter your journey will be. It’s not your place to answer his question. But you do pause - you stammer in your step - a slight falter that will forever influence everything to come and everything that has been.

Method shivered in the chill, watching you until you left his sight.

φ

Lemon glaze edged with harsh black lines – shadows of a former life’s burning protection. The dark lines hurt more to look at than the soft hue projected onto the once white sheets. The lines resembled entrapment. An entrapment of solid, whole things but a torture device of the cruellest kind, in which the mind can view what it cannot touch, what it can only have in thoughts – memories changed and evolved into a fantasy. Fantasy is worthless unless you can live it. But in some uncaring way fantasy is all that will be once the mind loses itself. And with the mind lost so is the body, so is the means to experience new things lost. Old memories now fantasy were all that had been left in the moments before. This body, warm in its lemon hazed surroundings, would experience no more, it was lost – it was sad in its ending.

Outside howls fornicated with the dark line’s sources, beating against whatever they could find – protesting. It was a lost cause – no more life would come of this – except for the insignificant lives of the microbes that would flourish. The body, alone and gazed upon, reflected a past event not remembered but recorded, the only linking factor being one sole being who was no longer gazed but gazing – Method. Oh how the tears would fall.

φ

Lectures are a spreading of wisdom in hope of the propagation of personal philosophies and ideologies. They teach they coerce, they bore. They throw dogmas at you, some of which may fly over your head and others that may crash into your face. That’s the good ones – the bad one’s are mindless dribble where you wonder; if they lectured themself would they listen?

Method sat at the semi enclosed concrete bus stop, an old man in a black tuxedo stained with grey sitting next to him. The man held a cigarette between his index finger and his thumb. He drew quick sucks letting the smoke slowly curl from his lips and disseminate into the air. The smoke remained idling around the setting; anyone unfortunate enough to be in its proximity became a second hand consumer.
“When you’ve been around as long as I have,” started the man. This was a classic lecture start. Immediately you know what is going to come next, some long rant about some life experience that the lecturer assumes you are too young to have had.
“And you’ve seen what I’ve seen,” continued the man. Usually this would indicate that the lecturer has had a very convoluted life involved in some type of armed forces or business that has gone bust. Or inversely their experience has been banal, except for one stand out life-changing event – meeting the Dali Lama or catching a spaceship to Io. For this man it was both.

“My wife was a devout Christian,” he began, catching Method’s eye. “And I mean she was devout – she was at the church every Sunday praying her little heart out. But she had a big heart – she cared for the decrepit the innocent and uncared for forgotten masses. She loved man she loved woman and she loved god. She was the sweetest woman I’ve ever known. I am grateful for knowing her - I loved her with everything I had.” He stopped and almost wiped a tear from his eye. But the salty drop seemed to crystallise in his eye making it glaze and glisten. He coughed.
Method trolled his fingers reaching to the ground and picking up a nobelium twig – it turned to powder in his grasp, “She sounds like a lovely woman.” The man smiled and looked out into the subdued traffic.
“She was. She died in church. She was listening to a service and I was by her side. We sat on the edge of a pew on the left-hand-side four rows back and as the minister said “Be of good courage! For as you have been giving a thorough witness on the things about me in Jerusalem, so you must also bear witness in Rome.” She fell down off the pew. She had a heart attack. They called an ambulance and when it arrived it caught on fire. Honest to god – one of the drivers had been smoking before they were called. When they were called, she tossed her cigarette and somehow it landed inside the back of the ambulance. By the time they arrived the back was alight. It was quite a sight; my wife lying on the stretcher and them opening the doors of the ambulance to the fires of hell.” He gave a whimpered gulp and looking to the sky took an almighty suck.

For a minute only the birds dared not to suspend.

Blowing out a puff of smoke that could conceal a magic dragon, Method, wide-eyed, breathed in the air – deep and full. And in that moment he was captured – the man’s clarity and insight became unquestionable. His once slow quasi-South-African drawl turned into a coherent pronounced posh English accent. The man’s story ended, he now spoke of a more anecdotal yarn; he spoke of when he was a child and how he had no shoes on his feet – but he did – he was wearing sneakers. Method laughed out loud at its comicality. He laughed at how the cars passing by seemed to remain stationary and then with a whoosh that almost knocked him over - were gone. Now long forgotten and unimportant as the craftsmanship of the bus shelter was now the important issue – it was sheltering this man with a lovable accent and caring heart but it was also sheltering him - Method. He was a man – is a man – he didn’t feel like a man. PENIS! Why don’t people shout,
“CUNT!” Method shouted, no one heard because it was inside his head – how big is the inside perception of your head. Could your inner space let you perceive something that was outside the four-dimensional space we live in? What does a four-‘spatial’-dimension cube look like?
“Get back on track boy,” the old man with the tux said, guiding Method’s walk up an incline that shouldn’t exist.
Now really why is cunt the worst swear word – it’s so degrading to woman to say that their genitalia is the worst word ever – god men are egotistical. Someone ought to correct that. Oh Ferrí where art thou?

On a bus. Focus – snap, snap, snap.
“Stereo!” Method cried, as his thought process became momentarily normal. “Where did you come from?” Method asked his friend, a blonde – now black, haired male of approximately Method’s height and build but with a few extra muscles.
“Behind,” Stereo said, “I saw you get on the bus and… are you okay? You look wasted.”
“I am,” Method giggled.
“Is that weed I can smell?” Stereo asked, bringing his nose to Method’s shirt and then pulling back in disgust. Probably from Method’s body odour rather than any illicit substance that may have lain traces there. Method laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and luahged and laughes and lieasn land leiadif…

“…You know Stereo if I were a chick I would so want to fuck you,” Method divulged. Two girls sitting at the back of the bus burst into pants-wetting giggles.
“Method. Why have you always got to cross the line?” Stereo third demanded, third laughed and third delightedly cringed.
Method turned his head down to the seat and watched it vibrate. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in so long.”
Stereo patiently watched his inebriated friend; “I’ve been…” he searched for a word and found it in his mind, “otherwheres.”

φ

Indeed Ferrí was on a bus, a bus that had spiked tires that crept like a sprinting athlete in a dank marsh. Trawling through the slush that had once been ice and had once been dirt but that was now somewhere between sleet and mud, it’s wheels slipped and skidded, spraying a faeces like substance all over itself. The windows rattled, condensation slipping into little pools that acted as if they were bacterium, creating light-warping colonies on the glass. Her skull vibrated with the windows and with the music that played over her headphones – if she clenched her teeth she could hear voices in her mouth. She swallowed the warm conditioned air. The races that Ferrí competed in hadn’t proven to be very rewarding. With her whole body aching as if punishment for the lack of her not doing her best. The weather had been against her though. It was as if it had fainted at the start of her first race - there was a slight drizzle rain that made the air like a swimming pool. And then gone into comatose all through the second race with a thunderous hailstorm that ripped her flying suit across the back. Then woken up bright and cheery with her completion of her second race, the sun shinning most when she vomited blood. Whatever controlled the weather must be a sadist, because it brightened at her pain.

Outside was dark when she finally heaved her body into a cushioned system of inter-woven sheets. She lay and watched the cracks prostrate the walls. She didn’t know if her body gave up control and went into paralysis or if she just no longer had the will to move. It didn’t matter either way - the exhaustion was blackening, and for a while there was nothing.

…And then…

Mind-splitting pain. Her insides were purged and purged and purged – violent, explosive, thought deafening purging that couldn’t be stopped even when her life-blood was streaming from her eyes. Death was better than this, but her will was for life and so into the bright moving lights she went. Slowly they cycled through their frequencies, white, blue, red, green… sickening slime green, beautiful emerald green, homely grass green, tying her to earth, bounding her to soft, clean, cushioned reality – green felt so good.

Love and happiness – she felt so good.

φ

Nestled throughout the universe is a little thing called ‘dark stuff’. This ‘dark stuff’ comes in different forms, matter, energy and information. It has a perceivable force over the matter, energy and information that is part of our everyday lives – ‘light stuff’. For many entities it is kind of like the concept of the soul – there is an intuitive feeling that there is some kind of otherness there but there is no real evidence of its existence. And for other entities – like many ‘evolved’ or ‘educated’ entities, as some would call themselves – it is explained by convoluted workings. In fact it is only there if one accepts the feeling of a soul like substance/working. If one dismisses this feeling, for whatever reason, atheism perhaps or an all round mistrust with what one experiences, then it will not be there. One will essentially have no soul.

φ

Eyes stinging like toads colliding with lemons in a physics experiment. Method’s head felt like an infinitely large collection of information squished into the space the size of a portable hard drive - his vision whirling like the spin of its magnetic disk. Where were his hands? His hands were shafted between corrugated cardboard grooves. And what of his nose? His hands comforted his nose – they were removed from the cardboard for there was an assaulting smell of rotting vegetables that would offend any man’s proboscis. Where was he? He was in a room, but he was no longer euphoric – he was a lethargic mess condemned to the pyridic heap of cardboard situated in the back dock of his place of employment. It took the placard at his groin for him to find that out. He lifted the placard and tossed it aside, it wafered down the side of the heap then leapt into the air and was sucked into the waste compressor. A minty stick was extricated from a cylindrical hole at the side of the machine. It fell into a small plastic tub of various naked sweet treats. Method dislodged himself from the heap, clambered down to the tub and picked up the stick, sucking it out of existence – mmm, minty.

Shivers of frustration rippled through the queue of disgruntled public servants and sugar-high school children. It was not until a golden boy opened his register that an orgasm of relief hit the burly gathering, inciting some to moan. But as in most cases the orgasm was quick and unsatisfying – prodded by Method’s unempathetic stare.
“Next!” he hollered commanding a degazement of the next in line. With a quick smile and a curt ‘hello’, they were on their way and the stale eyes lifted from feet to their namesake level. Fats, sugars, vitamins, carbohydrates, were churned out of their red and black baskets into neat grey and blue bags. For the self-righteous and self-gratifying though, their bags were green and black – the Amazonians prayed for the self-gratitude of the first world.

It was not until consciousness kicked in, or more accurately his body dispelled some of the invading chemicals, that Method realised that not one of his customers had spoken to him. No replies, nods or quips. Did he smell or something? Yes he did, but that clearly was not the cause for this enigma. Maybe it was the black car syndrome – you buy a black car all you notice is black cars on the road. Maybe only some of his customers were mutes and he’d just subconsciously keyed into the anomaly. Method tested his theory, “How are you going?” He asked an especially cleavage revealing woman. A blink at the large cucumber that method was grasping in front of him like a green phallus, was the only sign of acknowledgment by the customer. The breasts seemed to give a little bounce of acknowledgment, but that was not because of Method’s large phallus rather the large phallus of a blonde streaked male brushing up behind the woman. The groin is the prime place to attack when being attacked Method had noted from his customer anger training.

So he was slightly distracted by tits and dicks, maybe that’s why no one was talking to him – out of embarrassment. No, he would need to have another swing at it. “If there was a god, why would we know about it?” was Method’s next attention grasping question. Nothing, was the response of the next customer, not the utterance of nothing, no, nothing but nothingness – in fact the customer seemed to disappear in a purple puff of nothingness that wasn’t even purple, because that would have been something, no, there cannot be nothing when there is something.

Method grasped his screen that served as a friendly mechanical face for the customers and as something to discretely rest on for Method. The screen crumbled into a fine fibre between his fingers. He looked to the queue and then to the other registers to see if anyone witnessed the bizarre occurrence but the customers and fellow staff were oscillating out of existence, a haunting orchestration of ringing bodies shaking into frozen shells that cracked like thin sheets of glass. Space was eclipsed into a void that sucked at Method, his fluids congealed into a plasma form that rippled time into a fraction of measurement. It felt like Method was opening his eyes but in fact he had never closed them. There was a dripping sound at Method’s feet, he looked down but in doing so found himself looking at the ceiling or what had been the ceiling – now it was a bubbling pool of cream that sweated light. Snap! Method’s attention was drawn level - standing naked and genderless in front of him was the transient - simply known as Id.

φ

Ears ringing like cowbells in an arpeggio loop. The sheets on her bed entwined her legs. The ringing subsided as she tuned towards a light that defused through the turquoise curtains beside her. It was dark and serene, an almost water like glow, stark against the crisp air. She felt hollow, the light sickened her, she shifted her body, but the slight movement made her muscles ache. She cried silent tears that pasted her cheeks with a dull ember.

Doo-doo, a sound crossed between a doorbell and an airport announcement tone preceded a mumbled drone of monotonous rambling tautologies. It was soothing in an ‘I feel dead’ kind of way. She sensed a body enter the room. The floor was hard and cold – she could tell from the metallic footsteps that cracked like splinters. The body pulled the warm covers of her bed tight, making her skin prickle. She let the light penetrate her eyes – it was harsher than she thought it would be. There was a crash of cutlery from outside, which she turned and faced in annoyance. The room rolled, flipping her out of the bed, back into herself then up through her oesophagus into her mouth. A tortured gag was forced out of her but before she found herself on the floor two worn hands grasped her shoulders pushing or pulling her - she couldn’t tell - back into the bed. There she lay, as the bed-ship rose and fell with the moon.

On her third awakening, the world had settled down. The floor stayed as the floor and the ceiling stayed as the ceiling. She noticed how the ceiling stared down at her with a dull grey, as if by the ceiling being grey it couldn’t be anything other than dull. The walls, far from dull, revealed a remarkable insight. If she stared hard enough at the dots and markings she could make out a biblical face - but she didn’t know the face of anyone biblical so she didn’t make out anything at all. Instead the dots lead her eyesight to a person lying in a bed directly in front of her. The person was blindfolded with a rich blue fabric and wearing a robe that matched – the robe taunted her into an envious splatter. Bloody urine trickled from between her legs; this was not good - not fair. Her stomach cramped and she called out. The person across from her gave a startled jump - like tripping over a log in a dream. They opened their eyes to the blue fabric wrapped around their head. They listened, but the room was empty. All that was heard was the squeal of the pipes in the wall behind them and the hushed voices of the nurses outside.

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Dear reader, are you following? If you are – what, exactly, are you following? Method is behind you and ahead of him there is nothing but his creation.